in medias res

The Big Game

It's official - this is bravery week. I sometimes face situations that make my stomach do the lambada. Swimming in public. Playing sports. Talking in class. Talking to my professors (in or out of class). These fears have grown from teensy affirmations of failure, such as the boyfriend in college who announced mid-whiffle tennis game that he hoped my children wouldn't take after my athletic abilities. Or the time I forgot my monologue at a speech tournament in high school. Or when I "um"ed an entire class presentation two weeks ago. Or when I struck out in Little League when I was 13 (that wasn't an isolated incident - it was fairly consistent.)

This week, I decided to stop being such a pansy. (Not that there's anything wrong with being a pansy. Some of my best friends are pansies!*)

Last Friday, I went to a lit colloquium. That's when there's cheese and fruit and 2 liters at the back of the room and a speaker at the front who reads a paper for anywhere from twenty minutes to two hundred minutes, and then the audience rips the speaker's arms and legs off and sits back smugly. I spend the whole time looking studious while feverishly mapping out a new life plan. Heads - Carolina. Tails - California. The key? Take notes, avoid eye contact, and look pensive.

But if there's one thing I fear more than giving a paper in front of the faculty, it's attempting casual conversation with them. And there was a reception that evening.

I called my friend and pulled the "I kind of don't want to go but I kind of do so if you want me to go, I'll go." He did. My stomach got knottier the closer we got.

We walked the perimeter of the house before settling on the front door. (We were stalling?) But I was greeted by The Coolest FSU Teacher Ever. She took my chocolate pound cake and pointed me to the wine, but it was guarded by the (mangled) speaker from that morning. He said he saw me at the speech and I managed a "uh-huh. it was interesting" and grabbed a plate. I skirted the margins with the other two grad students (who looked much more comfortable in their skin).

Gradually, the night improved. Even though I cringed at the slop that came out of my mouth when they pop quizzed me on what I want to study, I realized that I could be (almost) normal around them. I listened to anecdotes and complaints, and I walked out of the house thinking maybe I wouldn't become a full-time quibbler in Cubicleville just yet. I decided to stop trying to see myself through their eyes and hear myself through their ears.

My second act of bravery was this past Monday night. (See previous post.) I tried to call and say I wasn't coming to the volleyball game. I wasn't even going to make up an excuse - just say that I was too scared. No one answered. I was nauseated.

I got to the gym an hour early and did a preliminary peek into the gym. It was three courts deep with people of all skill levels and very few kneepads. I changed clothes for twenty minutes before I went walked into gym to the girl smacking her gum at the really big folding table. There were eight sheets with team names and blank spaces and I didn't have a clue what my team name was.

"Um, I don't know how to do this. I've never done this before. Like, ever. I'm scared."

She reassured me that it would be fine and went through several lists until she found my team name - the Martin Van Burens. I put my information in the first space and sat down halfway down the bleachers to watch and pray that no one else would come. It felt just like high school.

One by one, the friendly faces from my department joined me on the bleachers. We had natural athletes and people who had never touched a volleyball before. I felt a little better.

By the time we were playing, I silenced my personal internal soccer mom and enjoyed the feel of running hard to meet a crazy ball and sending it smoothly back into play. It didn't always happen that well and I didn't get the nerve to dust the mothballs off of my overhand serve, but I played well enough to enjoy myself. I'm slowly learning to forget my performance and play the game.


*It's probably time to retire this as my favorite joke. Hang up its jersey. It's too old for the game now and just keeps embarrassing itself with trying.

posted by tara @ 5:20 PM